


all the people selling truths (and everything's caving in)

by lechatnoir



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-01-23 19:18:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hitman!AU in which Erik Lehnsherr has a hit on a man named 'Xavier' in exchange for information about one 'Schmidt' and there are ghosts that dance along the edge of his fingertips. There are two worn out suitcases which are tossed haphazardly in the corner of a motel room and he thinks that he's far too much like those suitcases - worn out and barely holding everything together - but there's a certain thrill that comes to him when he's on the hunt and does a clean job. He doesn't expect to enjoy the company of a man named Charles but he does, and somehow they end up wrapped up in each other until the mementos and photographs fade away into nothing but the ghost of a piano being played in an empty flat with the echo of a laugh that used to brighten up his days, and there's no escaping the blood on their hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quiet Corners and the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> in other words, yet another hitman AU oh boy.
> 
> you can find me on tumblr under chrysanthemumskies & also @ michiums!

i. 

 

It’s easy, to put a bullet in the head of someone who’s wronged you.

It’s easy to fall into the side step pattern of sleepless nights and feel your muscles tighten and coil around as if you have snakes underneath your skin.

(And maybe you do. Maybe you’re made of snakes and venom and all it takes is one slight push to break the skin and you’ll be spilling out onto the floor, blood and guts and venom and snakes and all) 

It’s enough to count the blood spatters and calculate the angle of the light from your vantage point, take a second to think of the openings your target has, think of the openings your bullets have. 

(Insert part A into slot B in order to complete the transaction) 

It’s enough to remember ‘ _Eins, zwei, drei_ ’ muttered in your ear and the _thump_ of a body hitting the ground.

It’s enough to remember the screams that ripped out of your throat until there was nothing left but the hoarse sobs coming out of nothing but a whisper somewhere in the confines of your chest. 

The first man you kill is at the age of thirteen, when you’ve seen the world burn brightest and men who decided to become kings of the world for nothing but the satisfaction of their own pleasures. 

The second, at the age of seventeen. 

(There are whispers that circulate the streets, of a young and upcoming genius with the name Xavier attached to him like a death sentence, but you pay no mind and put a bullet through the head of another target, wipe away the blood that splatters onto your face and straighten the crisp white shirt that you have on, a slow, lazy smile on your face as you saunter away, a slight kick in your step.

You don’t know why, but you feel particularly good after this kill. 

All the while you lock away the memories of Mama, because she would have been disappointed in you, if she was still around today.

But Mama was a ghost, and ghosts are nothing more than whispers on a cold rainy day) 

 

ii. 

 

The days drift into weeks and soon enough the years roll on by. 

You don’t stick to one place for too long. 

 

(Aren’t you a ghost yourself, Lehnsherr?) 

 

It’s easy enough, to think of a story, blend in gradually with the local people, make up an alias, put on an act.

(Sometimes he thinks he should be an actor, and then he takes a swing of beer or scotch or whatever is closest at the time and laughs a sharp and bitter laugh in the empty hotel room that he’s currently staying in, devoid of photographs and mementos, only two suitcases lying haphazardly in a corner with worn out buckles and fading leather, all scratched up and worn to the frame but still sturdy, still keeping things together.

Sometimes he thinks he’s like those old suitcases of his) 

What’s not easy is tripping over his own words and letting a slip of the tongue get to him, letting blue blue eyes and a dashing smile and the name ‘Xavier’ charm him, with a quiet sense of joy that floats up through the cracks in the quiet corners of his mind but it’s perfectly alright he thinks, when they’re both drunk and no one pays them any mind in the shitty bar that they’re in. 

(It’s enough he thinks, that he should be focused on tracking down Shaw or Schmidt or whatever that man’s name is in this day and age.

He shouldn’t be focused on the way that the man before him is flushed up against him and there’s a shaky breath that escapes both of them and he can smell the alcohol on both of their lips and a small part of him whispers that he should stop, that he doesn’t know who this person is, and the chances of lodging a bullet into this man’s head is gradually growing by the second. 

But he realizes he doesn’t give a fuck and it’s hands on skin and they move with a familiarity to them despite having only known each other for an hour or so. But they don’t care and end up tangled in the sheets of his shitty motel room and he sinks into the pillow with a quiet sigh that escapes him and a warm hum on the edge of his mind that he hasn’t felt since he was a little kid and Mama would sing him a lullaby to keep the nightmares away. 

There’s a lazy sort of kiss that he lets himself be dragged into by the man and he lets his guard down (only slightly, he thinks, with the alcohol buzzing in his mind).

The man moves and there’s a glint in his eye like a smile and he speaks, voice calm and soothing – “You know, I don’t think I’ve actually introduced myself to you before jumping into bed with you. Which is oddly enough not my usual style. Not that I’m complaining of course. Charles Xavier, pleasure to meet you.” 

There’s a ghost of a flicker that moves on his face but he tampers any down sort of anxiety or panic that might crawl up under his skin and he just leans down and presses another kiss to Charles’ lips – “Erik.” Is all that he says, and the smile that he receives chips away at his guards just slightly.   
They lull themselves to sleep, while the moon gleams outside of the window, and he thinks he’ll be able to move on come morning. 

iii.

The first rule that they say is never to let yourself get too attached.

The second is that any and all emotions are needed to be kept locked away.

The third is that when a job needs to get done, it gets done.

Fourth, don’t leave any mementos. 

iv.   
When the sun glares at him at the crack of dawn, Erik Lehnsherr lets out a groan and moves sluggishly and maybe the mask comes off for a split second, just a second, before he realizes that Charles is still here and it’s ‘Xavier’ that rings in his head and he thinks of the task that he’s been assigned and he feels like shooting himself in the foot for getting attached.

_Idiot_.

“It’s too early for you to be thinking so hard, Erik” Charles’ voice is soft and warm as he looks up at him, a lazy smile on his face, lazy brown curls framing his face as he watches him with the sunlight dancing on his face.

“I’m not –“  
“Erik, please. You’re like a coiled gun, locked and loaded and about to fire. What’s gotten you so tense? Especially at this hour in the morning.”

There’s a pounding in his head and he wants to say it’s the alcohol – although, he knows it’s not true.   
(Alcohol hasn’t had that effect on him for quite some time.) 

“Nothing. Just stress really.” 

(There’s something like a mental kick in his head because really now, _stress_ , Lensherr? Out of all the shit you do on a day by day basis and you fucking say _stress_ has gotten you worked up and tense in the morning?) 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“I’m not one for much talking.” 

The silence that draws out between them is tense, but the hours tick on by quietly and Erik finds himself lying down again in bed and it’s Charles who smiles and presses a kiss to his shoulder before muttering something about food and tea and that he’ll be back , or he could leave if it would make Erik feel better and he really should have kicked him out last night, before they decided to fuck and sleep the night away and he should have seen that this little engagement was a bad plan from the start. 

He doesn’t know why but the words slip out of his mouth before he can reel them back in and it’s quiet and silent with nothing but the sound of a clock ticking and their breaths echoing in their ears- 

“No, wait – Stay.” 

Charles only smiles and nods and they spend the day like that, curled up in the sheets with the sun dancing along the contours of their bodies and lazy patterns traced on each other’s skin with lips and fingers and something like ghosts that dance along in his memories. 

(It’s the happiest he’s felt in quite some time.

Not happy, not exactly.

Content. That was it, he felt _content_ ) 

Erik allowed himself that small comfort, just this once. 

(He thinks they should part paths and never see each other again, and thinks that he doesn’t want to kill this man, despite the orders that he was given.  
And it all circled back to Shaw, or Schmidt. 

_Put a bullet in Charles Xavier’s head and we’ll give you Schmidt’s location._

He pushes it aside in his head and focuses on the fact that he can breathe freely, with no worries about triggering an alarm or that a bullet would be fired if he breathed the wrong way, at the wrong time, with too much force all at once. 

He thinks and wills himself to relax, and it’s Charles’ lips that quietly coax the tension off of him, slipping away as if he was drowning in an ocean and it was warm and he thinks he can feel the whisper of _calm_ and so he clings and clings and holds on, not knowing that he’ll be dragging them both down to their untimely demise sooner or later. 

But quite frankly, he doesn’t give a fuck.)


	2. Fixed Points and String Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is rain, anxiety, a bit of blood, and glass.
> 
> Or, Charles finds out something he shouldn't, and Erik lashes out. 
> 
> (And here they thought things would work out.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on tumblr under chrysanthemumskies !
> 
> i'll be going away to Russia from July 3-28, so hopefully I can squeeze in a few more updates before I leave QvQ; !!

i. 

 

Charles becomes something like a fixed point in his life. It’s odd and unfamiliar but Erik doesn’t try to shut him out or turn him away. In fact, he finds that he can’t shut him out, even if he wanted to.

 

(He thinks that he’s gotten soft, has let this man worm his way into his life, completely dismantling what shields he had in place, concrete walls and cold glares to ward off curious inquiries.) 

 

There’s a voice in his head that whispers every once in a while to him, reminding him that he has a _job_ to do and it’s in the quieter moments when Erik knows that Charles is teaching a class at the nearby University – bright eyed and vibrant, hands moving with animated excitement – that it comes out, managing to sour his mood considerably and that’s when he wants to tear apart the apartment that they’ve been sharing ever since that night that they both had drunkenly decided that hooking up was a grand idea. Instead, he tells himself to calm down – after all, Charles doesn’t know anything about his profession – and counts to ten before letting out an annoyed breath and decides that he’d be safer going on a run instead of being coped up in the apartment. 

 

The apartment was Charles’, wide and spacious yet completely and hopelessly cluttered by books and papers all around. Charles had mentioned something about some sort of old blood money running in his family and Erik could tell that despite his fondness for wearing out cardigans until they were ratty and threadbare and close to falling apart, he was a man of wealth.

 

(Every once in a while there’s a quiet flame of irritation that makes itself known in the back of Erik’s throat causing him to slip up, snap, and lash out at the slightest inquiries and Charles only raises an eyebrow and stares and stares, it’s as if Erik is being scrutinized underneath a magnifying glass when really, there’s no threat at all and he has to remember that all this – all this unnecessary anger that wraps around him like a hand poised to choke him – that this is _Charles_ and Erik remembers where he is , storms out with a slam of the door, and Charles is left with the nagging suspicion that there are more secrets than just the haphazardly hidden gun that he had found in the bottom right drawer next to his bed not too long after Erik had moved in with him, one rainy sunday when Erik was out running errands and he was left alone. )

 

 

Oddly enough, it was the first time that Charles realized that he doesn’t really _know_ Erik, other than the fact that his parents had passed away when he was young, and that he works as a mechanic at a local car shop not too far away from the university. 

 

He doesn’t know anything else – he’s looked him up of course, tried googling his name and finding him on social media sites like Facebook, but it was as if Erik Lehnsherr never existed in the first place. 

 

Charles thinks that perhaps he’s gotten himself into something bad, runs a hand through his hair and letting out a shaky laugh and really, he wasn’t specifically _looking_ for anything in particular, but it had been a slow Sunday morning and Erik had gotten up early, said something about going for a run before leaning in to press a kiss to his neck and heading out, and Charles figured he might as well get some work done before the finals season kicks into overdrive and he had remembered that he had kept a bit of white out correctional fluid in the bottom drawer and he had made a mistake or two while grading some of the papers that his students had submitted to him a few days prior. 

 

It was a quick thing really, but he had been too lazy to get off of the bed and walk around to the drawer, so instead he leaned over the bed, stretching out like a lazy cat and blindly felt around for the little bottle of white out with his hand. While he was fumbling around, his hand had touched something cool and metallic - 

_‘Well, that’s odd. I’m pretty sure I don’t have anything metal in this drawer. Maybe it’s something of Erik’s ? ‘_ \- it was then that he had grabbed onto whatever it was - 

_‘It’s smooth, and cool – it’s not some sort of toy is it ?’_

 

and lifted the item up. 

 

He felt his throat constrict as he tried to swallow and blinked once, twice.

 

 _A gun? But why does Erik have a gun? Especially here?_

 

He thinks that he needs to level his breathing, and he can feel the anxiety creep along his fingers – hands shaking, thoughts swirling and roaring in his head.

 

It was then that the rain had decided to announce itself with a thunderclap and boom, and Charles jumped, counted to ten, and told himself to _calm down_ before he accidentally shot himself in the foot. 

 

 _Was the gun loaded? Maybe it’s empty, or maybe it’s a old antique thing that doesn’t work anymore._

 

It was cold and silver and gleamed in Charles’ hands as he gingerly moved it from side to side, before putting it back in the drawer and closing it back with a dull ‘thud’. 

 

“Just breathe Charles, breathe.” 

 

One breath in, hold - _now , count to ten._ \- and _exhale_. 

 

He can’t stop his hands from shaking, can’t stop the laughs bubbling up in his throat and he feels like tearing his hair out before letting out a shaky “Fuck.” 

 

And the world doesn’t stop, doesn’t freeze or slow down.

 

The rain outside roars and howls instead and Charles feels like if he starts to dig further, he won’t like the result.

 

It was at that moment that Charles heard the apartment door open with a ‘click’ and he had scrambled back upright, papers haphazardly laid out on the bed sheets and cover as if he had a sloppy system going in, pen in hand, eyes pouring over the words in a systematic sort of way.

 

(He wasn’t really reading, just scanning the words that were written on the paper. Trying to will his brain to _calm down_ and get his breathing under control – it was simply a process of analyzing and not processing. 

 

Repetition at its finest. ) 

 

He can hear Erik shuffling and humming around the apartment, feet padding over the carpeted floor and there’s a split second where Charles tells himself -

_Act natural. Pretend you don’t know anything._ \- 

before he hears Erik open the door and poke his head in – “Well, seems like someone finally decided to wake up. I thought you’d be asleep the entire day with the way you were snoring. “ – there’s a smile in his voice, that much Charles can read off of him without having to even look at him. 

 

“I do _not_ snore. You on the other hand, manage to steal all of the fucking blankets like some sort of harvesting bear. “Charles muttered in response, looking up from the paper that he was only just letting himself process and start unravelling the meaning behind his students’ work. 

 

He’s met with eyes that light up in amusement and there’s a grin on Erik’s face as he closes the space between them, carefully moving onto the bed and shifting the papers so that they’re out of the way and Charles ends up being trapped between the pillows and Erik’s body and he uses the one paper which he’s holding as a feeble shield but that really doesn’t do much, not when Erik leans in and whispers

 

“A _bear_ , Charles? Really?” – 

 

And there’s a blush that dances across Charles’ cheeks as he sputters and scoffs at Erik suddenly leaning in to nuzzle his neck. 

 

“Well, if I’m a _bear_ , then you must be a batch of honey.” 

 

Charles can’t help the laughter that sputters out of him and he doesn’t try to push Erik away, not when there were soft kisses being placed along his skin as the rain puttered on by, and the papers laid forgotten on the floor, and he thinks that he can take this, can worry about the fear that slowly laces his skin in the quiet moments another time. 

 

But not now.

 

‘Now’ would be spent memorizing the contours and maps of their bodies, and it would be alright. 

(Won’t it ? ) 

 

ii. 

Erik knows that he’s slipping – knows he’s getting too comfortable with the way things have ended up working out, knows that time isn’t slowing down, no matter how much he think it does when he wakes up with a stretch of his limbs and sees Charles lying in bed next to him, a soft expression of fondness in his eyes and it’s waking up to soft kisses and quiet moans that paint the apartment in hues of blues and greens and he thinks that time has some sort of way of slowing down to a crawl and he thinks that he can let go of the blood on his hands.

 

He knows better, knows because as long as Klaus Schmidt, or Shaw, or whatever alias that man has been using - exists, Erik won’t rest.

 

Time would have to stop existing in order for Erik to truly pause and learn to simmer down, learn how to control the anger that slowly manages to engulf him at a moment’s notice. 

 

He doesn’t notice that he’s been biting down on his lips and that he’s drawing up blood but he storms out of the apartment anyway, hands twitching and footsteps agitated because he was a _fool_ to ever think that by getting _drunk_ and _hooking up_ with the one man who he had a hit on would be the smartest idea in the world. 

 

(He thinks that at this point, it would be easier to shoot himself in the foot and call it a day.) 

 

This wasn’t the plan – this was never the plan.

 

Getting _attached_ was never an option.

(Seduction was one thing. Manipulation was another. Fabricating a story, a persona, it all came in a package deal. 

Whatever needed to get the job done, any and all resources, be it his own body or a large sum of money – anything that he could use to be one step closer to finding Shaw, would be utilized. )

Getting attached would have been the equivalent of shooting himself in the face and then deciding to pour an entire bottle of salt onto an open, raw wound. 

He tells himself to calm down, tells himself that maybe there’s a loophole in all of this. 

A small part of him even thinks of telling Charles everything. 

Iii.

Erik storms out of the apartment and Charles isn’t there to see him. 

There’s one thought that roars in Erik’s head as he starts to run, mechanical and automatic, with no actual thought process behind it. 

_Charles found the gun._

 

iv. 

They say that when you want to hide, whether it be you yourself, an object, or a secret, the best option would be to hide it in plain sight. 

Usually it works.

 

 _Usually, you don’t get attached and you finish the job before you even have a chance of fucking it up._

 

Erik could only close his eyes and count to ten, as he looked at his phone screen where there was one text message - _from Charles_ \- that simply said

_’ We need to talk’_

 

That night, they had their first fight, with the gun being tossed on the living room table and the apartment door slammed as Charles stormed out into the cold night. 

 

Erik didn’t sleep that night, and in the morning when he had stepped out to get the mail from downstairs, there was a note left behind on the table. 

 

 _You should have known better, Lehnsherr._

 

Shooting himself in the foot would have been the logical option right now, but instead he let his blood run cold before letting out a frustrated snarl and before he knew it his fist was bleeding and there were glass shards littered across the carpet where he had punched the table. 

 

_Glass shards and blood , huh? Way to be poetic, you fuck._


End file.
